Show Me Freedom
by nycforme
Summary: Berger and Claude deal with the Vietnam war and their feelings for each other, unsure of which way to turn they realize that love might be the only truth in the world.
1. Chapter 1

"What does everyone want from me?" His lips are chap, his eyes are sunken, and his hair is tangled and matted against his sweaty forehead. Claude leans against the counter of their cramped, dirty kitchen and with a frustrated sigh he rubs at his watering eyes.

"I want you to be you." Berger whispers from his spot on Sheila's ratty couch, the radio crackling in and out from the spot in the window behind him.

"And who is that?"

"Whoever you want it to be." Berger insists, again. He leans forward and turns the dial up, listening to the breaking sound of the news cast. They've found a way to broadcast straight from Vietnam, Sheila was proud to bring it right into their living room.

"I want to be right. I want to make other people happy."

"Claude, you can only do that by making yourself happy first." Woof appeared from Claude's bedroom stretching his long arms above his head, shaking his long hair out of his face.

"Where you off to, Woofie?" Berger asks, his bare feet resting on their scratched and dented coffee table, as he finishes rolling his joint.

"I promised Sheila I'd meet her at the park, she wants help painting some trees." It's only a moment before Claude and Berger are alone again, Woof making a quiet exit after grabbing an apple off the counter.

"Claude, man, don't be so bummed, you're throwing the vibe. Come smoke with me."

"I shouldn't."

"Why? Planning on leaving for 'Nam right now?" Thin shoulders slumped, hair obscuring his vision, Claude plops down next to his best friend and takes the rolled paper.

"Don't you think it's my duty to serve?" Berger takes the joint back, turns the dial up even higher to the sound of the newscaster's voice,

"Well to say it's raining would be an understatement, but Lieutenant Dan Johnson has a plan that will incorporate even his injured men-"

"Rain or shine, injured or healthy we're serving…what, Claude? What're we serving?"

"Freedom?"

"Do you feel free?" Claude watches as the tears start flowing from Berger's green eyes, he doesn't bother to brush them away. Instead, Berger stubs out the joint on the coffee table and leans forward, grasping Claude's face between his large hands.

"Do you feel free, man? Is this freedom to you?" Claude shakes his head, his breath caught high in his throat as he grasps Berger's hair. Tightening his fingers in the brown locks, trying to anchor himself in this moment forever. Wanting to be staring into these deep caring eyes for the rest of forever. For the rest of always.

"N-no, Banana Berger this ain't free-"

"Show me freedom, Claude. Show me what it means to be free."

Claude leans forward and presses his lips to his friend's lips, to his love's lips. Being hung up on your best friend and then kissing him, Claude thinks, is a lot like riding a bike for the first time without any adult help. The taste of mint and grass and something natural overtakes him, he feels like he's flying on the feeling of Berger's hands stroking his neck and caressing his cheek. If serving means leaving this moment, Claude doesn't think he'll be able to go. But then Berger pulls away, and Claude remembers. Remembers where he grew up, remembers where he's living, and remembers the half burnt draft card sitting on their counter amongst the fruit. As if war is natural and anything but man made.

"That's right." Berger smiles, using his thumb to push the hair away from Claude's forehead.

"We're gonna be ok, George Berger."

"We're gonna be ok."


	2. Chapter 2

Berger can see it, everyone can see it, but Berger can see it the most. It's everywhere he looks. On every wall there's a poster reminding him, in every park somebody sings to him about it, every morning when he wakes up he sees it. Sees the evidence of what this perverted country has turned his people into. Sees Claude laying on the couch, with his thin chest and jeans that hang on bony hips, sees Claude sleeping through what could be sacred hours.

He's just a boy. A very thin, lost boy without a childhood or a place of belonging. "He's got us, we're his parents. This is his belonging." Sheila doesn't even have to repeat herself anymore, she can just send Berger that understanding look, trying to convince him that what Claude had told them so many times was the truth. Berger wanted to believe it. Most of him did. After all, he had never loved or belonged so much as he did with this tribe. With this stone cold pack of beautiful souls and enchanting bodies.

But then there are afternoons like this, when Sheila is at school, and Berger is left to sit in the kitchen and watch Claude's sleeping form. Watch the breath leave his slightly parted lips, watch his delicate fingers twitch, watch his eyebrows furrow, watch his body tense, watch him die over and over again in his sleep as he tries to make the right decision.

"Don't go." Berger hopes that some part of Claude's brain is awake and registering his plea, registering the need and passion in his beg. But he knows it won't work, so he sits back and settles for watching his friend's skin become slick with sweat in the summer heat. Their window is cracked open, but the curtains of beads are still in the quiet air.

Claude is too little, Berger thinks again and again. He's not all that little, in actuality he's a tall and well-built man. But he's thin. He's just a boy standing next to those big guns, standing next to all that malicious metal. Claude belongs in a field, flowers grasped in one hand and another person's hand in the other. Maybe Sheila's hand, that way she could educate him and he could nourish her heart. Or Jeanie's, maybe Claude could finally take Jeanie's hand and help father a child. Help keep that child from being as lost as they all were. Or Berger's. Claude could take Berger's hand and they could take care of each other, they could protect each other from the things that didn't need to exist. The things that they could stop together.

"What time is it?" Berger jumps at the question, he hadn't noticed Claude waking up.

"One, Claude."

"What're you doing here? Where is everybody?" His voice is deep with sleep, his frail hands wipe at his squinting eyes as he sits up. Berger perches himself Indian-style on their coffee table, trying not to show his concern for the tired man in front of him.

"I dunno…out."

"Well, what're you watching me for?" Claude chuckles and it's reminiscent of the carefree laugh Berger once knew.

"You should burn your draft card."

"What?"

"If you burn it, it doesn't exist, man. Wouldn't it be nice for it not to exist?" Nice is an understatement, they both acknowledge but neither voice it. Neither want to recognize the severity of what this all means.

"Just a thought." Berger shrugs before returning to his room, but he listens. He listens to the sound of Claude's bare feet slapping against their wooden floor, the sound of rustling mail, the silence of Claude staring at the card the way Berger has caught him so many times before. The number inked into the paper seems so purposeful, as if it's supposed to explain everything that Claude is. That Claude could be. They just don't understand, Berger realizes, that a human being is so much more than a name or a number or even a body. A human being is so much more than could be explained or simplified the way the country is trying to.

"I don't want to be a part of this at all. Not the peace or the war, I don't want to be involved. I want to be invisible. I want to pass this." Berger hears Claude explain to Sheila that night after he listens to her moans of pleasure and the sound of the wooden headboard banging against the wall. And he just nods to himself from his spot in his lonely bed, that sounds about right. Claude would want to stay out of this. Claude would never exist if he had the option. Berger wants to be selfless and wish, along with Claude, that Claude didn't exist. But then he wouldn't have had the chance to meet him, to touch him, to try to protect him the way he wants to. Berger wishes he was selfless and could help Claude disappear- maybe get him out of the country. But he doesn't want Claude to go away, he doesn't want to lose what he's beginning to hold dear.

"Burn it, and you won't exist." Berger doesn't mention Canada, doesn't mention escaping.


	3. Chapter 3

"You should be nice to her, you know." Berger says as Jeanie snaps their door shut behind her. Claude doesn't answer as he continues in his struggle to open their window further than the two inches it's stuck at. The simmering July heat isn't helping anybody's attitude, Berger realizes, but Claude had crossed a line.

"She's just hoping for some security for her babe, Claude-" Berger continues, although Claude doesn't acknowledge him. He perches himself on a chair, feet propped up on the kitchen table as he watches Claude's lithe body struggling with the window.

"You're not my father, and I'm not its father." Claude settles for peeling his shirt off, giving up the war with the stubborn window, and sitting on the couch to roll a smoke. They sit in quiet for a moment, both listening to the sound of Claude's fingers rolling the crisp paper.

"I know that, I'm just saying, she doesn't need you yelling at her on top of everything else." Berger breaks the silence.

"And I don't need her to yell at me on top-"

"That could be one of the last times you talk to her, Claude." Berger interrupts, watching as Claude balances the fresh joint between his thin lips, and fiddles with the matchbox.

"You don't know that."

"I said _could_." Berger brings his feet to the ground and fiddles with some of the fringe on his vest.

"Man, stay out of this-" Claude lit the tip of the roll and waited for the fire to catch.

"But what if you do? Claude, what if you do die? What happens to us?"

"Don't do this, Berger." Claude closes the subject; ignoring Berger, he inhales the smoke. Waiting for it to take effect, he leans back on Sheila's denim couch. Claude watches the smoke and his eyes almost flutter shut as he watches the grey and white swirl around him, if he could sleep forever he would.

"Your mom's gonna get your tags if she's lucky—fuck, if _you're _lucky, man. And what are we gonna get?"

"We or me, Banana?" Claude looks at Berger for what feels like the first time in a long time. And then Berger sees the fear, the regret, the pain and confusion in the young boy's eyes. He's standing up and crossing to sit next to Claude before he can think about it. Berger pulls him into a warm hug, arms wrapped around his bony shoulders and almost feeling a physical pain in his heart at the idea of ever letting this poor boy go.

"We, Claude, we all love you. What do we get when you're gone?"

"I'm gonna come back-" Claude's shaky voice was muffled in Berger's shoulder, his thin hands desperately clutching Berger's back. If only, Claude thinks, he could stay right here. Safe, cradled, protected by love and loyalty.

"And if you don't? How long are we supposed to wait if we don't know you're dead?" Berger cringes at his own question, feels Claude grasp him tighter and so holds him even tighter in return.

"I'm going to be ok." It's more a whimper than whisper as Berger strokes his hair with a calming hand.

"I know, Claude. I know you are."


	4. Chapter 4

Berger kisses Sheila, walking her backwards to his bedroom; he stops for a moment and leans her against the door. Bringing the tips of her soft hair to his lips, he kisses it softly, smirking down at her as she runs her hands over his chest with laughter in her eyes. She's so beautiful, he tells her over and over making sure she knows he means it, then he takes her to bed. It's not the first time, it's not the last time, and it isn't a time he thought he would remember for years to come. As he moves over her, hands affixed on her breasts and ears full of her softs sighs and gasps, his mind wanders. Wanders down the hall into a different bedroom, into Claude's bedroom, imagining his face twisted in pleasure and muscles rippling as his entire body trembles in anticipation of pleasure.

"Claude…" He doesn't hear himself until later, once Sheila has screamed Berger's name with her hands tangled in his knotted hair and they're leaning against his headboard sharing a messy joint that was rolled between her shaking fingers. The room smells like a combination of the sweet grass, smoke, sweat, and the natural flowered scent Sheila seemed to float on.

"You're so beautiful." He tells her again, huffing in a deep breath and letting it sit in his lungs. She stares at him with a tired grin, taking the roll back from him and placing it between her bruised lips.

"I'm more than that, you know."

"I know," He tells her, "you're a smart, funny, talented person that just happens to be all wrapped up in this groovy body." A finger trails down between her breasts as he talks, and she laughs puffs of smoke up at him.

"Thanks…" Sheila watches him as she fiddles with the joint, his arms now crossed across his muscular chest and his concentrated gaze focused on his dresser, "You should tell him."

"Hm?" It's a musical hum, but he doesn't catch her eye as he takes the roll back from her.

"Nothing."

But he knows what she was getting at. She has the decency not to try to bring it up for the rest of the night, which he's grateful for, but at around one in the morning when she heads back to her room she gives him a small, sad smile that says everything she doesn't have to. She's too smart, Berger always thought so, because she wasn't just brilliant book-wise. Sheila was intuitive and perceptive to people in a way that amazed him, she had the sense of what people wanted, needed. He heads to the bathroom once he's heard the squeak of her door closing, but is confused by what he hears. Over the sound of their sink running, he can hear a buzzing noise; it reminds him vaguely of the sputter of his father's old car. But that's not possible for multiple reasons, his stoned mind reasons. Realizing that he is standing outside of his own bathroom with his ear pressed to peeling pink paint, he pushes the door open slowly. Then freezes.

"What're you doing?" His throat is tight and he's blinking back a burning sensation behind his eyes. But it's obvious what Claude is doing. Claude is making a decision, and he's doing it by shaving his head. Claude blinked back at him in a cross between fear, regret, and sorrow. He looks pathetic to Berger, frail hands holding the buzzing razor with a pale, half shaved head. Berger leans over far enough to turn the faucet of the sink off; covering the counter top was Claude's golden hair. Dead, sad, pathetic on the cracked tile, Berger doesn't blink the tears away anymore.

"What're you doing?" Its Claude's turn to ask as Berger pulls the razor away from him, but he is surprised to see that Berger doesn't toss it down like he was expecting.

Instead, Berger positions himself behind Claude and helps to shave the hair away. They don't speak as he uses one gentle hand to massage Claude's tense neck and another sturdy hand to remove the hair. It falls around them, patting lifelessly to the wooden floor beneath their bare feet. Claude is shaking under his strong hands, tears sliding silently down his sallow cheeks and Berger realizes that there is no hope for him, for any of them. Claude is leaving them, for good or for just a small while it doesn't matter, he's going. He doesn't think to be mad; he just knows that it hurts. Deep within his chest is a pain he's never experienced a stabbing, throbbing pain that makes him feel full and his throat feel tight. When Claude's hair is gone he clicks the razor off and pulls it from the plug, setting it on the hair-covered counter with a clatter.

"You look…"

"Pathetic?" Claude's voice is rough and coarse, he doesn't meet Berger's curious eyes.

"Different…You look like a grown up." Claude just laughs and shrugs, his hand wiping the hair away from the back of his neck.

"Heavy stuff, Cheese Berger." Claude tries to joke back, but Berger is serious as he brings his palm to rest again the soft skin of Claude's damp cheek.

"You look like a man." His eyes well up at his own words, and then the tears are pouring from both of them as Claude clasps his arms around Berger's neck in a tight hug. They're patting each other's backs, standing in the center of the dimly lit bathroom surrounded by clumps of Claude's lost hair, crying over everything they knew they could've had.

"All I had was my hair, Berger. That's all I had left." It's a gasping and broken sob that he says into Berger's neck.

"And you're all I had left, so now we're even-stevens." Claude forces out a choked laugh, pulling away from Berger's neck with a watery grin. He opens his mouth, searching for something to say, but Berger just shakes his head with a kind grin, the kind of pitying-grin Claude has seen him give Jeanie before. Claude presses his lips to Berger's in a kiss in the only way he can explain what he's feeling. He puts all of his pain and fear and love into that kiss, groaning as Berger presses him against the bathroom wall, with the understanding that Berger's feeling all of that, too. And then Claude thinks that maybe everybody is feeling that way, maybe that's why they're all people. Arms clinging around Berger's neck, Claude pulls away for a gasp of air and looks up into Berger's gentle green eyes.

"I love you." He whispers, watching pain flash in Berger's watering eyes.

"I love you too." Berger mumbles before dragging him back into a kiss, firm hands holding Claude tight to his strong body, and for the first time in what feels like years, Claude doesn't feel so lost.


	5. Chapter 5

Berger had a feeling that Claude wouldn't wake them up when he left. Berger was right. So he watches, and it hurts more than anything he's had to do before. It hurts more than watching his parents fight, it hurts more than leaving home when he was expelled, it hurts more than he thought it was possible to hurt. When all he wanted to do was reach out, hug him one last time and tell him to take care of himself, watch his ass, be strong, he had to sit still and stay quiet. With Sheila wrapped around his bare chest on the couch, he angles his head on her milky shoulder so he can watch Claude through his nearly shut eyes.

Claude's bony shoulders are pushed back, his head is held high, and he's done crying. Berger watches as he slings his bag over his shoulder and stares around the apartment. His brown eyes taking in the sight of Berger and Sheila lounging on the old couch, empty bottles from only hours before littered on the carpet, the joint they shared was probably still warm in the ash tray. Berger longs to stand up and clap him on the shoulder when Claude sifts through the old mail, finding his singed draft card. He holds it between shaking fingers and runs his thumb over the black number engraved in the yellow paper, Berger can see the fear and resentment on his face as he stuffs the paper in his pocket.

And then, Berger's chest tightens as he watches Claude walk to the door; he takes the opportunity to memorize everything he can about him. He tries to take a mental picture, but it's hard with his mind still so cluttered with thoughts of wanting to be able to say goodbye, to tell him one last time what he means to him. He doesn't want to forget a single detail, already he feels the memory of his face slipping away and he prays for just one more instance where Claude would turn around and shoot him that goofy grin and contagious chuckle. The contagious chuckle that Berger thought he had memorized, that he thought he could pull out of a crowd, but now that he thinks about it it's gone. Was it even a chuckle? Maybe it was more like a bark, he isn't completely sure anymore, and again his chest tightens and it's hard to breath when he sees Claude's hand grip the rusting door knob.

But a miracle happens; God was listening for once, because Claude turns around and stares him straight in the eye. Berger's heart jumps to his throat and he feels his eyes water, there's no use pretending he's asleep anymore. Claude grins at him, eyes full of laughter and joy, and Berger thinks he understands. Claude is going somewhere, Claude is following a path, and Claude is happy to be making a decision about his own future. Berger can't think of anything to say, it feels like only moments ago he had a head full of beautiful things that would explain everything he felt, poetic words that would describe Claude in the sunshine way that Berger saw him.

"I'll take care of them." Is the only thing he can think to spit out, his voice gruff in the quiet room. Sheila stirs a little on his chest, her small palm resting above his heart. Claude simply nods, trying his best to give Berger a happy memory to remember, trying to show that he chose this because he's a strong person. Berger watches as Claude throws him that goofy grin and a peace sign, before he closes the apartment door behind him.

Berger sits in the silent room; imagining Claude taking the stairs down like he had so many times before, out onto the street and into the waiting cab. He thinks about going after him, about pulling him into a deep kiss, maybe taking him right there on the street if Claude will let him, because Claude deserves that kind of deep love because Claude is a pure, deep person. Claude deserves love and peace and everything he wants. He does not deserve to have a gun thrust into his arms, to be pushed into the mud during a raid, to tramp through the rain along with other terrified boys who don't deserve this either.

But Berger stays pressed under Sheila's warm body, he watches as the sun creeps through their beads and rises higher and higher on the opposing wall of the kitchen. Every once and awhile he thinks he hears familiar footsteps clomping up to their apartment and thinks that maybe, just maybe, Claude will burst in with his English accent and an invitation to Manchester. To a place that Claude would call home for the rest of his life, no matter how long that is. That doesn't happen.

Eventually, Sheila wakes up and stretches through a yawn before placing kisses along Berger's chest and neck. He tries to act normal, he tries to act fine, he tries to act like he hasn't been ripped apart. His mind draws a blank on what the natural thing to do would be, the only image his mind is conjuring is Claude flashing a peace sign before heading off to war and he feels his heart being torn apart again and again. His body responds to her before his brain does, and he wraps his hands in her tangled hair and pulls her into a crushing kiss. He puts everything into it that he can, he knows that she can sense there's something wrong but she kisses back with the same ferocity, nipping at his lips, tugging his hair, grinding down against him. When she finally pulls away she gives him a look that tells him she knows he's done something, but he shrugs it off by lifting her small body off of him and going to shower.

She knows, and the guilt is almost as painful as missing Claude. The entire tribe goes searching for him, splitting up into groups and heading to their favorite sights. Sheila sticks by his side, her small pale hand clasped tightly in his much larger, tan one. He can feel her watching him as he calls out Claude's name, as his throat goes hoarse from calling Claude's name, as he loses his voice from screaming Claude's name. They meet together in the park, Crissy and Jeanie are clutching each other tightly and Berger has to remind himself that this is not his fault. You cannot stop a man with his mind made, and that's what Claude was. Claude was a strong, smart, able man who was old enough to make decisions on his own.

But as the months go by, Berger continues to wonder whether Claude would have gone if he knew how much he caused. If he knew that every morning Berger woke up with the hope that maybe he would have word from Claude, that every night Jeanie set a plate of food out that remained untouched by the rest of them, that before they went to sleep Sheila double checked to be sure that nobody had locked the door, that when Jeanie went into labor she cried for Claude the whole time. And he hopes that after time the pain will reside and he'll be able to move forward, but it doesn't. Not for any of them. They lost a brother, father, cousin, son, lover, friend, soul and there is no recovering from that.

The loss certainly brings them closer, they hardly leave the apartment anymore, and with Claude's room empty they have an extra space for whoever needs it. Most of the time Jeanie is there with her small babe and it's transparent to Berger that she spends a lot of the time sitting on Claude's bed or sifting through his closet, or searching the drawers of the dresser. Because that's what Berger does. He's not sure why but he's always drawn back to that room in hope that maybe he'll open the desk drawer and find something. He's not even sure what he wants to be there, he just know he's needs something.

A year passes by and things have changed since the last time they've seen or heard from Claude. Hud and Wolf assume that he's dead, but something tells Sheila and Crissy that he isn't. Berger doesn't have an opinion, half of him hopes that Claude will walk in the door at any moment. The other half of him knows that Claude wouldn't want to survive that horror. But it still hurts, there is nothing that hurts more than having him gone from their family. For the first two months he was gone Berger couldn't sleep, he had a different partner in his bed every night in hopes of erasing any sort of feelings he could. It didn't work, because when Sheila or Crissy or Wolf finally fell asleep he was alone again. Alone with the haunting thought of where Claude could be.

Sheila didn't listen to the radio as much anymore, but in those late nights when Berger was alone and his blankets were tangled around a naked body he lounged out on the denim couch that he and Claude had shared so many times, and tuned into the news station. Live in Vietnam, straight from the center of the action he listens to the bombs dropping, he listens to the rain pouring, he listens to the newscaster describe the torment of the young men fighting for their lives. He tries not to imagine Claude there surrounded by all the blood and violence; he tries to imagine Claude in the field he'd pictured so long ago. Sun gleaming down on his golden hair, a wide smile that shined through any trouble, his frail hands full of the flowers he'd helped to pass out so many times. So no matter where Claude was, Berger tried to think of that. Tried to think of how Claude would want to be. Tried to think of Freedom.


End file.
